Frenchiflyable

I've changed my name again. My blog was originally floating-in-france, which I retain on the title page, because it really summarizes the essence of my life in France and is a common denominator for most of the topics of the posts to be found in this blog. However, this name was taken and there were millions of references to youtube videos with this same exact title. Myfrenchflair was a good enough name, but a bit lame. I've also been talking more and more about other countries like Spain, and/or the U.S. So, that brings me to my new name, Frenchifyable. It's definitely original, nothing close to it on the net. It combines the terms Frenchify and Fly which are kind of close to my original blog, which I did want to keep. Frenchify also because it describes both the process of becoming a French citizen and taking on traits associated with French people. When I had my interview to become naturalized the agent asked me several times. Êtes-vous francisé? À quel point? That is such a good question I can't answer it but hope to bring it out in this blog. Fly as float because that's what I'm doing, and I'm looking to land, though the more I think about it, land but not anywhere. I just may change the name again, but until then, I'm Frenchflyable. Cheers!

By the way, for Christmas I got reviewed. Imagine that! Have a look:
http://www.atasteofgarlic.com/lorraine/floating-in-france/
Thanks a lot, Keith!

New job

Sometimes things happen for a reason, yet I'm still not sure what that reason is. I had the chance to apply for two great job opportunities that I ended up refusing. The first one was my favorite: a Romance Language and Literature professor in an affluent liberal art college in Chicago. Why did I turn it down? Well, first of all, the application requirements including a statement concerning philosophy of life and personal convictions, an extensive cover letter, a new CV written in a certain way, three letters of recommendation, and transcripts for round one, and then if were to make it on to, a telephone interview and then more and more requirements for rounds four and five. Yes, I could have probably managed to get all the requirement documents, but in the end I didn't want to. My philosophy of life was not to take part in this process. Do I actually prefer floating in France to making something of myself in life? It's daunting because this job and it's process felt like I was applying for the position of army colonel or indentured servant instead of a tenure track position as language professor. That makes me want to run away and far. I will work for a school with all my might, but it will only be a job, and no one will own me. Plus, I also hate it when schools try to sell themselves with words like, exclusive, superior, and elite. That's not at all me either. And then again, I must say I didn't want to live in Chicago or in any of its suburbs. I see myself floating further south or east actually! Nevertheless, I do feel like I let a great opportunity slip away. There are so many ways that that position would have been awesome and perfect for me, endlessly more interesting than continuing my current existence. I'm going to kick myself, I am, but c'est la vie. I'm going to have to psychoanalyse myself big time. A friend told to write for an hour on what I see myself doing, being and having in the future. I'll do that soon right here, maybe it'll shed some light on who I am and how to structure my future. Gees.

The second job wasn't hard not to apply for. It was a very specific position in teaching theater at my alma mater. In many ways it would be great to live in Cincinnati again, for family and comfort, but I don't want to go back to my alma mater. That campus is my history, and I'm glad I'm out. I want to move on, not back. I am crystal clear about that, really I am, in spite of salary and position. Besides, theater is interesting but I don't necessarily want to limit myself to that.

One thing I've learned about myself by writing this post: If getting the dream job requires sacrifice, I won't have a dream job ever, even if this has the salary, the benefits, the freedom and the responsibilities I inevitably want. Sorry. Rontay

Coccinelle

Great new French group, Dionysos, with a catchy tune and video. I highly recommend them. I can't get the song out of my head.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kiy9seAzMEY

Happy Halloween!
Rontay Merquiades

Rat in a cage...

Rat in a cage


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E96PQuIl_cQ
Bullet With Butterfly Wings by The Smashing Pumpkins



Here I am in my hometown: Harrison, Ohio population 8,917. Can't miss it. Drive southwest on I-74 about half an hour from Cincinnati and you'll get there... not far from where Ohio, Indiana and Kentucky meet. In fact, it's suburb, "West Harrison" is actually in Indiana. So, it's "great" to be home. It brings stability and continuity. Nothing has changed here in at least 20 years: well, almost nothing. The Kroger supermarket has expanded and is now a superstore... but Otherwise, the same old bowling alley, putt putt golf, Dairy Queen, McDonald's, Downtown historical area, view of the treacherous Great Miami river, the daily record newspaper and last but not least, our award winning high school.. Go wildcats! The green and the white will win over all! Oh, this is the place where the past meets the present; the place where you can raise your kids knowing they'll pick up the right All-American values.


Harrison was named for its most illustrious son, William Henry Harrison, our president of the United States of America. One of the area's tourist attractions is still visiting his tomb. You can climb all the way to the top of his grave, now in superb disrepair, and see clearly the beautiful northbend of the Ohio River where Kentucky juts up into Ohio. Poor William Henry suffered a terrible fate. Just 32 days after taking office he died of a real bad chest cold. Rumor has it he didn't dress warm enough for his Inauguration and didn't carry an umbrella despite the pouring rain. That sealed his fate, and Harrison's 32 days of fame. Yes, take that Andy Warhol, in our neck of the woods it's 32 days, not 15 minutes. Alas, Harrison has never been the same.

W.H. Harrison 1773-1841

Harrison is also unique in its great mixture of people. You've got English, Irish, German, a few Poles and a couple of Italians and maybe even a Greek too. That's about it. It's also hard to find anyone who isn't Catholic. We got a nice church, St. John the Baptist, that has a chicken dinner/gambling festival every August. The Irish brought in lots of little whiskey joints like the Mecca Cafe and the Dew Drop Inn. You can really have a good time there on Saturdy night. FYI: In our town, cafes don't serve coffee, and Inns have no beds. The Germans brought that hankering for brats, wieners, hotdogs and hamburgers all over town. The Poles, the pickles and pumpkins, and Beppo, our Italian, has an absolutely wonderful little pizzeria outside town, making a wicked extra pepperoni, extra cheese pizza. Dio christi!

As I go about town I see the same faces from those legendary dynasties of families that have always lived in town: the Stengals, the Rogers, the Dennisons, the Pruits, their offspring and their offspring's offspring. Now I understand the concept of reproduction. Literally, you reproduce yourself in all of your glory. The captain of the football team and homecoming queen's children, well you know what they are? Now they have become park ranger and PTA mom like their parents were. The bad boys who smoked dope under the bleachers beget other bad boys who knock up the daughters of the girls who were teen parents twenty years ago. I guess we could loosely divide the people into two groups: 1) the white trash, those that rhyme well with whale, pack with park, are more fans of Johnny Walker than Jesus, and do real bad things sometimes; 2) the good folks who send their children to Sunday school, have day jobs with titles, make meatloaf casserole, say Oh my gawd and who'd have thunk it all the time, and turn up their noses at the people they consider white trash... but in reality, we've all got the white so we all got the trash. A visit to that super Kroger's reveals wonders, "honey, say thank you to that nice lady". "I'm a gonna whop you but yin li'l bastard" "mommy I'm hungry" "Debra, did you hear about what happened down by the river last night" "Hey, Paul, how's it goin' bud?" My head starts spinning right round right round and I feel the urge to upchuck. Is it the discomfort of being different, of not being different, of certain uncertainty, of uncertain certainty, of returning back to point 0, the bittersweet passage of time. "Mr. T, well, I do declare, they say you went far away, they's right when they said you was most likely to get the hell out of here, you back?, gotta wife, some kids? How your parents doin'?"

Well, that's the only change. My mother shakes and spins, sleeps without wanting to wake up, cries, and spits... I guess that happens after 80 years of monotony, running around silly like a rat in a cage, having too much meatloaf, fitting in that diverse mixture of people. She comes to. Tell me what's going on in town? Well, mom. They opened the new Kroger's. Who's _____ the manager? _______ I think. Well, that boy will make something out of himself yet. I remember when he was just pushing around buggies. Yes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry too, mom.

Dad comes in. You. I wanna go home. I know you do. I want my car. I know you do. I wanna drive with your mom down to the river. I know you do. I want my money. I know you do. I wanna get out of here. I know you do. I don't deserve to end up like this. I know you don't. I'm sorry, dad. I'm angry, going from one room to the other and looking at those four walls.

Rontay

World Cup obsession

Ok. I am not a sport’s lover. I think the only thing worse than kicking around a ball is watching someone else kick it around. A waste of time! I never understood those guys who just can’t get enough. There must be something wrong with them, right? The greater the fan, the less my esteem is for them.

Needless to say, when I heard this was a world cup year, I braced myself for the worst. More French divas, righteous indignation, arrogance, all the worst things you can imagine. But to my surprise the French team melted! Yes, the higher you think you have climbed, the quicker you fall to rock bottom. Such lack of grace! Finger pointing! Public scandals. rrrruuhhha

Anyway that’s about the time I started paying attention to this cup, and discovered la Roja: Torres, Iniesta, Xavi, Villa, Puyol and the gang. I discovered for the first time that soccer can be entertaining and worthy of attention. The speed, the grace, the elegance of this Spanish team has brought art to the game. I am amazed at David Villa’s fancy footwork, also Puyol’s ability to back flip over another player and make a head butt. Mindboggling. Really.

As I was drawn into La Roja’s game, I became hooked. I didn’t miss any of their games, watched interviews on internet, and investigated their backgrounds. I wanted to know everything about them. One of the things I love about this team is they are both modest and fun loving. They don’t tend to get angry, scowl, demand privileges, and they seem to be close to their fans and grateful for the opportunity they have been given. Moreover, they are gracious to the opposing team

Tonight I realized what obsession was. I left home at 8PM to go watch the game at my neighborhood café and found that it and about every other café in town was closed. How could I have forgotten? It is Sunday in Metz, and everything is closed. Damn! I ran home, cursed the day I got rid of my TV, quickly tried to find the game on my computer or even my cellphone (to no avail), and then desperately went back out in a thunderstorm to find some/ any place open watching this game. Also I watched nervously my watch, lest I miss something important.

I did find someplace open near the station, and a whole large screen TV to myself, as the French are just not interested since their team is gone. Literally I was on the edge of my seat. Granted, I don’t understand soccer. I don’t know what yellow and red cards are and when someone gets the right to make a corner kick. Besides, that offside rule is impossible to grasp. I don't think I'll be looking up the rules either. But all in all I understood this game. Most of the time Spain was attacking and Holland was successful in thwarting their attempts to make a goal. I think in the two hours I watched, with two periods of overtime to break the tie, the Spanish tried at least 50 times to score, and every time the didn’t I got more and more nervous. Once in a while, the Dutch did get the ball and ran to the other side of the field. It seemed they would make the goal. My heart beat harder and harder. I had to use all my force to keep myself from screaming. I know the experts must say this was a good game. Such passion mixed with frustration. When Spain finally scored near the end, it was catharsis. I felt like crying. Game over, the medal and trophies given, I never felt such pride for a team and a nation. If only I were in Madrid tonight. I hope they are enjoying the win and it brings the people closer together.
Rontay

ode for another puff (2) - Summer

No, I haven’t had a smoke. Getting by without is mostly okay. I’ve been with smokers and withstood the urge to ask them for a cigarette or even a puff. I have survived the terraces, patios, sidewalk cafés, parks and my balcony by mostly avoiding them this year. All in all, it hasn’t been so difficult. Now I’m wondering if my lifelong love of these places was always linked to smoking. Did I go so often to these places because I wanted a smoke? Geeees. That’s scary. I’ve also stopped drinking alcohol. No, that one is easy. It’s just… after a few glasses of rosé, I give into impulse.

However, the desire to smoke persists, and I’ve found yet another hurdle to jump. The weather! I love summer so much. I love hot, muggy, sticky weather, and everything else associated with it: hot scalding sun, too much breeze or lack of and even lightening storms. That’s really ironic-- isn´t it? -- since I’m living in far Northern France. Well, honestly, for me, that hot, heavy sultry air is smoking weather. I crave that puff with a cold drink, under that umbrella, in that comfy deck chair. It’s sooo gd good. Whew! I have wanted to buy a pack all day. Just one! It’s Sunday! For old time sake! Blah, blah, blah.
I got by this time. I breathe so much better now. I can climb stairs without losing my breath and that wheezing cough is gone. Later! Rontay

Les sept doigts de la main

Traces - Les sept doigts de la main

Check out this circus troop that I saw last week at Jardin Fruitier de Laquenexy with my friend, Heidi. Many of them worked for Cirque de Soleil.
I have not been so amused for a real long time. I thought my circus days had long passed. The energy, the emotion, the talent, the magic.... I'm speechless. The jumps, falls, climbs, whirls, cartwheels, sprints... I'm in awe... How can people do those things with their human body? twist in two, do the splits, hold their entire weight on their finger. My God, what can't they do, really? Add to that, singing, dancing, and playing 10 musical instruments each. Definitely worth seeing again, again and again.

http://www.google.fr/images?hl=fr&q=les+sept+doigts+de+la+main+images&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&ei=APISTb3QL4Kr8AaDz42LDg&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CCwQsAQwAA


Rontay Merquiades

A ticket to France

Talking to my friend, Heidi, we reflected on what it means to be an American floating in France. Some days I really feel like a sociologist! Yes, some kind of Margaret Mead trying to understand the intracacies of this culture. How is it possible not to get the simplest task done, or spend seven days, months or years on projects and never get any further along. Heck, sometimes you can't even get the tiniest cup of coffee.

Americans grow up in a culture where we are taught that the ticket to success is hard work. The open, articulate, nice guy with a head on his shoulder usually gets what he wants, deserves, needs. Smile to that waiter and you get that coffee lickety split. Work yourself through college and you'll find that job, your reward that you justly merit... Summa Cum Laude. Phi Beta Kappa. Become partner in that firm. We also, okay this time maybe it's just the naive Midwesterner, believe that people are good and fair at heart. People are to be on an equal footing, people should have equal opportunities, people don't get turned away for unjustified reasons, your neighbor is no better off, no worse off than you are. Grrr.. that sounds so idealistic. But maybe I've been in France for too long.

In France, if you go into a café alone, where you do not know the waiter, the owner or any of the other customers, don’t expect to be served. It’s nothing personal, but why should the waiter care? He might never see you again. You are creating work for him and there is no incentive, good or bad, for him to take you serious. He can blow you off if he chooses. At the very least, he’ll attend to all the other customers who probably have some status with him or give into his desire to go smoke a cigarette, eat an olive or talk on his cellphone before taking your order. It’s cut and dry. Nothing you can say or do will change this. It’s up to him. You can try to charm him, just maybe it’ll work, but forget insistence, a sense of entitlement, or the big smile.


The worst thing about being a foreigner is you are often alone, often go into unknown stores, restaurants and cafés, and often need to rely on the kindness of strangers to find your way, get an apartment, find a job. Yes, I’m afraid our coffee metaphor extends throughout the country, adapting to every possible known context, official or unofficial, you could ever imagine. It’s flabbergasting. There are several words for it: the ticket, the piston (link), the connection, the old network. Choose your favorite. But, the foreigner is at a clear disadvantage because by nature he knows no one. Frenchmen have mothers, fathers, grandpas, uncles’ best friend’s wife’s brother’s friends, fellow first grader’s cousin’s sister, old teacher’s nephew-in-law… well, that’s the ticket. Honestly, it could be blackmail too.. also a lot of “I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine”. A Frenchman when looking for an apartment on the Left Bank automatically thinks of who or what connection, what way, what combination can get him access to that dream pad at the cheapest price possible? Who can get him that job he’s not qualified for? Who can get him into that popular club, concert, restaurant? Maybe a discount? How can I get an appointment to see that goddam eye doctor? How can I get those designer shoes for half price? Get that authorization to do this or that? Yes, it’s unfair. Especially since everyone in France will tell you this is not the case... It’s the country of liberté, égalité, fraternité with very set rules, laws, equal opportunity and no discrimination, and you, the foreigner, have just not done something right. Honestly, someone could become bitter if they think about it too much and don’t try to use the system to their advantage. I really do understand the 2005 riots in the immigrant suburbs in Paris. Those people have no tickets and will be forever denied jobs, houses, diplomas, information, services, coffees.

Anyway, tickets have been both a blessing and a curse in my life. I’ve got 1000 euros worth of books for my thesis for 100 euros because I had a friend who had a friend whose father was manager of a big bookstore in Paris. Virtually every job I have every got in France has been through connections. Some of them weren’t even advertised. My current employer got my name through a doctor and never bothered to interview me or read my resume. At one time I was able to claim state benefits I didn’t qualify for because the husband of my friend’s sister worked there. A good word from someone important got me a permanent green card. Today, a supermarket clerk I met at a party regularly forgot to scan some of my groceries. The owner of a restaurant I regularly go to gets me the best table and doesn’t charge me for dessert. Further, another advantage has been the wonderful trips to Provence, Charente, and Paris my contacts have afforded me. To show how far a ticket can go, an acquaintance of mine managed to get a friend with connections to lay a free marble floor for him and that same guy later got a job by having someone falsify a diploma he didn’t actually get from university! Another girl, got a huge apartment overlooking the river in a swanky area of this town for 140 euros rent per month, you cannot get a closet for that in France. Know someone in a labor union also apparently opens up lots of doors. They can get you enormous benefits.

On the flip side, not having certain connections have really hurt me. For instance, I spent 10 years to become qualified for a tenured post at a university. The rules stipulate a long, long process whereby you have to move not just one, but several mountains. I’m not exaggerating here. And I’m proud I did it. I was not daunted. I achieved it through a lot of hard work and patience, and obtained the certificate to prove it. BUT, do I have that post? No. Will I ever get a post? No. 99% sure. The fact is that I’ve got no ticket whatsoever into that academic world, and I should have known better to believe that system worked otherwise. I was naïve. I’ve also been living in the same goddamn studio for too many years cause I’ve got no connection there either. And having a career and living in nice surroundings are important! Actually, part of my reticence to move to another city in France is losing all my contacts and starting over again, alone, and living even worse. That’s difficult anywhere in the world but in France, where you literally need people to vouch for you, it’s difficult.

In general, I suppose I am resigned to make the best of this system, whether I like it or not. I have an American background, so I would prefer getting things done quickly through self-resilience, skill and kindness. Will I ever get fed up? Well, just maybe… But, it’s great to get a new ticket. For me, it doesn’t happen every day, but when it does, it’s wonderful. I could probably do better but I don’t work at it. It’s against my nature. I suppose some of the mystery and charm of France comes from its weird logic it's taken me so long to unravel.

That´s the ticket!

My advise, live your life as normal, follow your instincts, maybe you’ll have a pleasant surprise, but, in general, don’t expect much from French people if you don’t have a "piston". Rontay

Bled dry

Bled Dry

For survival, gotta be tough
Another gallon's not enough
A game of give, never take
One more pint, for goodness sake.

It's a game to so long endure
And where's the glory, never sure
As the well slowly churns up dry
They say sorry, sorry, then deny

So much blood shed for la France
For this bloody, wild incessant dance
See the end, there is that prize
Of fun and folly, oh what lies!

Glamour, glamour, worth a drop
Wine and dine, make one more crop
Sing and Sting, just pour it all
On heaven's doorstep, you shall fall

As the sun sets I shall bleed
Overwhelmed by rivers filled of greed
Again a quart to forge ahead
Why. too late now, for I am dead

Ode for another puff

I stopped smoking on December 15, 2009. That'll be 5 months soon. The longest time ever! And yes, I have the intention of never smoking again in my life. In the past I have stopped quite often for one or two months at a time. But I always give in. Always the same reason. Well, only one. Why should I deprive myself of this pleasure? It's usually at a party, with a friend, seeing someone light up, and I say... well, why not!

Actually, I have developed really quite a few misconceived notions about smoking... all enabling me to go on in my habit. Number one: no matter what they say "Cool" people smoke. All the most interesting people smoke... artists, writers, musicians, travelers, intellectuals... people who do cool things like going out on Saturday night, those who have the best wild ideas, the most beautiful looks, the witty conversation.... all opposed to the boring, conservative, conformists... who live like chattle, drivin' them pickup trucks, sitting in their swings behind those white picket fences. I guess I still believe that somewhat, even though I know that doesn't keep my chosen people from dying young, having a lung removed, carrying an air tank around with them. Leading to Number two: nothing bad really ever happens to people who smoke. Never known anyone to die, never know anyone to get cancer, they all living the good life! And number three: it really is a pleasure. Take one puff and you're in nirvana. That puff on the balcony at sunset: Wow! With coffee, yum! With rosé wine, ambrosia! With whiskey and coke on the rocks, heaven! So, these ideas are still in my head, they are so hard to fight, cause I still believe them.

Now about my habit. I started this (on and off) smoking some 20 years ago, which actually means that the years with some smoking involved now outnumber those that were cigarette-free. What kind of smoker was I? Well, not the kind I guess most people are. Not what until a few years ago I would have called the real smoker: those who start puffing at dawn, take their pack with them everywhere, take smoke breaks at work, and by evening have smoked a whole pack maybe at a rate of one or two per hour. That's not me. I was the binge smoker. None all day followed by 6 in an hour, on weekend party nights more than a pack in one night... I'm kind of like what Sue Ellen Ewing was to drinking. One taste and you can't stop.. Curious I've never heard of studies on this kind of smoker. I can't be unique. It took me a while to realize I was hooked. Some situations like the evening balcony scene are irreplaceable. Stopping all together unheard of.

So how did I manage to stop this time? Cold turkey like always... it's never been a problem. Stop buying cigarettes, destroy ash trays, get rid of reminders, block balcony door permanently. I must say the new smoking laws in France banning cigarettes in public places, bars, restaurants, the workplace have really helped. Smoking in the street was never my habit, as was smoking without some kind of drink in my hand, and to a certain extent, smoking standing up anywhere. No way I'm going to go out in the cold and rain of northern France for a smoke. Ixnay! Also, I know what triggers the cigarette and I have (until now) mastered it. I know the just one, how logical as it may be, cannot work in my case. Not taking that is always the answer. Other positive ideas have also entered my mind. 1) my slight asthma has cured up. I can climb a flight of stairs without panting; 2) I ABHORE the smell of tobacco, and I never find it on my clothes, hands, body, or by way of clothes in my apartment. I also get nausious when I smell it on others too; 3) instead of the negative role models, I've recently sought out or paid more attention to the victims... old, decrepid, coughing, weezing, dying victims of a lifetime of smoking who curiously enough are still puffing away. That's not cool. No it isn't; 4) I realize the pleasure only lasts for a minute, afterwards it fades, sometimes after a cig, I even felt slightly sick and had to lie down, and of course, I wanted another; 5) I am secretly a vain person... nobody would guess it, but really I am, and I've read evidence that smoking causes bad skin, quicker ageing, and above all it causes hair to fall out. Since I have been fighting an unsuccessful losing battle with baldness, well it can't hurt to stop. Many of those old decrepid poor smokers are also bald. Gosh!; 6) packs of cigarettes are really expensive now.. I have saved so much money, it's astonishing. Even the cheap foreign packs are 2,50, French ones 5,00 euros. If I did 3 or 4 packs a week, that's 50 a month. I'm actually going to fund my Summer trip to Spain on money saved. If I can keep myself from smoking in cig loving Barcelona, that's another story.

Writing this is helping me. Because to be honest, Springtime has brought back to me a desire for a cigarette despite of it all. The cold weather is no longer a deterrent, social life is picking up again, and I see lots of cool people enjoying their puff of tobacco wherever I go. Temperatures are rising and i've always like hot-weather smoking. Same old arguments still there... Deny myself a pleasure for life? Anyway, my goal for now is a smoke-free 2010, the first one since about 1990. We'll see how it goes!

P.S. Big pat on the back to me! This is the first time I have successfully put in a picture! Ok, granted it's not the way I wanted them to appear, but one thing at a time.

Rontay

Spring floating

If you have been following my blog (probably not) there has been a lot of negativity lately, so much negativity I have even amazed myself. It'll be weird for me to look at these posts years with the so-called wisdom I'll have.
So let me seize on the chance to be positive. Mostly to let you have a glimpse of why I've been floating in this country for so long.

Today was a day that could never happen in the United States. I got up early to go to give class to a private student in Thionville, a nearby town about 40 minutes or so by train from my home. It's a three-hour intensive class, so it's a lot of preparation added on to the early communte. I get there at 9:00am bang, I wait and I soon I receive an unexpected sms from my one (private) student, Brigitte.... no, she won't be coming to class, she has a headache and is taking the day off. Granted she writes this to me 10 minutes after the time the class would have started! So I feel shitty for having wasted all my time, and I was already stuck their because I had an afternoon class, even if I would still be paid for part of the time wasted. \

That is when I bumped into Nat, the other language instructor who says "no prob, just switch with me, just move your afternoon class up a few hours till now, your students are here anyway doing something else, I'll shorten my class with them too, and we can all take the afternoon off". At first, the little American inside of me thought.... no, they have plans for the morning, have projects, need to have lunch sometine, how would we find a room?, how would it work out?, is that possible? there is a little fraud there somehow... nah nah ni, nah nah nah" . But let it be, and so it was.... I ended up taking an open classroom in the school, and made a deal with my students that we'd do about half the time, no one would know about it, and we all could have the afternoon free. And if we had to blame anyone it'd be Brigitte and Nat! But actually so many people had taken the day off anyway that there weren't even any secretaries or assistants around. So this morning was kind of like organized chaos, everything was on auto pilot, you know... photocopy machine works till the first jam then puff, improvised attendance sheets etc. In the end, I made out better than if Brigitte had come, for a lot of reasons as you'll see later.... financially 6 hours of class in 2.5 hours, with 4 of them paid and a whole afternoon free! Floating in France can either bite you hard in France, or you can win big time.

Next, I head out and start walking back to the station. And what do I see? People dressed up like Halloween singing and drinking beer in the street! So I learn of the BAC carnaval tradition! The equivalent of Seniors in High School sporadically decide (whenever they want to) to play hooky (all of them), go party in the street, all with the excuse of protesting the fact they have to take the Baccalaureat, a hard, thorough exam at the end of their studies, to get their high school diploma. In reality they drink a lot of beer, make a mess and condemn the napoleonic tradition. OMG!

Arriving at the station, I find a crowd of disgruntled people waiting for trains. The SNCF train workers have gone on strike again!!!! Again, nobody knows why, no apologies, no info available. My 1PM train ain't coming! It's 12:35, so I thought, here we go again... I dodged one bullet and survived well, just to get hit straight on in the head with another!! But don't dispair.... what did I see? The 10am train, arriving late, going in my direction! No, I didn't have a ticket, but I couldn't miss the opportunity. I had to jump on that train, like my life depended on it! Who knows when the 1pm would have come. And no conductors, means I could actually get away with it. Even if there were, today was my day and there was no way in hell they'd get a dime out of me...

All in all, I actually won again. It makes you feel alive, and strangely productive. I got up on the wrong side of the bed and turned every bad situation into a success story. Yeah, I know it's pure luck, and it's really the same message as before. My life is floating on a cloud, normally a storm cloud but today a beautiful bright fluffy one. Whatever, it feels good, and speaking of clouds, the underlying reason for everything happening today, the real unspoken reason, be it Brigitte's blue flu, the changing of classes from morning to afternoon, my pact with Nat and the students, the Senior carnaval, and the train strike.... if a miraculous thing happened today.... after 9 months, the sun came out in France. Yes, Spring has finally arrived.. It's incredible really! Getting out of my train in Metz, I looked up, and gasped. Oh my God. Now if you live in Florida I guess you cannot appreciate this, but in France this is really unexpected, because the weather is so terrible almost all of the time. So this was as close to being touched by the hand of God that you every possibly humanly imagine. Then you realize what the century old legends of Springtime in Paris and the beauty of France is about. You suddenly see flowers everywhere, geraniums, nacissus, lilies, green trees, think lawns. You hear the sweet sound of river water slowly floating downstream as you slowly saunter over the bridge. You notice the sunshine ricocheting off whitewashed buildings built centuries ago, gone with the winter coats, on with the miniskirts. The artists and wannabe artists are painting outdoors. Everyone seems to be in love with life and each other, walking, holding hands, running, rowing boats gently across the lake, sunbathing on benches everywhere. The French are just enjoying life and laughing (yes even laughing in France, it does exist), and, sipping those tall glasses of rosé wine in outdoor cafes, and of course, you bump into everyone you've ever met, and celebrate together, for of course, but of course, nobody is working, every bogus excuse is good for for being out, about and alive.

Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay, Rontay

Easter Sunday 2010

Well, here I go again. Another doomy blog. Honestly when I set this up, I thought I would be posting lots of cool things but it turns out that I'm using my space here to vent out my frustrations and organize my thoughts. Easter Sunday is only good I guess if you're a child, have children, are part of some big family, or perhaps are the really religious type. I do have fond childhood memories of the Easter bunny, chocolate eggs, Easter egg hunts and all that stuff. We all used to get dressed up in new clothes, usually white, my mom always said it was the time of year you put away your winter wardrobe and got out your summer one, and if necessary go on shopping sprees to get new outfits and show them all off.... to people at church.... to people around town... to cousins and aunts.... why was this custom so important? And after mass, and egg hunts and easter bunnies, there was always some big feast with a smorgasboard (no idea how to spell that omg) but I do remember there was always ham and deviled eggs, with cranberry juice served in itsy bitsy glasses. Later we'd make the day of it, go to a horse race I think, take a promenade along the river or walk through some nicely mowed park to check out the flowers that were about to bloom. Yeah, Easter! Traditions? Why am I getting so nostalgic? I honestly didn't even think about all that stuff till right now.
It's just because I guess, whatever, if you're alone, and living in France it really sucks! It is still cold, still rainy, there is nothing to do, everything is shut, everyone has disappeared lord knows where, no sign of any resurrection here. Sigh!
The real coup de grace for my morale was the phone call to my parents at the nursing home. I'm not the only one sad and alone, but at least they don't even remember that everything that characterized their life for so many years and was so important for them, is gone.... Today my mom was brain dead. I really tried to have a conversation with her. I ended up sounding like the cop interrogating a suspect that just would not answer. So what this and what that and when and where and how and why? All I could get from her was a uh-huh, yes honey, and a few I don't knows. It's terrible to get like that. As for my dad, well, he was talkative today. But I've got to follow him into wonderland. Nothing he says is even remotely connected to reality. But I got a half hour out of him, going from navy stories, to WWII, to car accidents in the 1960's that might (not) have really happened, to conversations with nurses and guests and doctors that might (not) be real, to family gossip, and future plans, and his vision of reality.... all of which is completely bogus, I think. Talking to him confuses me so much, but I happily followed him into his world. Nobody else will. I owe him that.
So, all of this musing brings me back to the point/doubt/idea that has been in my mind unanswered for several months now. Could I possibly return home, take them out of that nursing home, move in with them in their old house, take care of them (with all that entails and implies... getting them up and dressed, maybe bathing them, certainly given them shots, medicine, cooking, cleaning etc. etc.) indefinitely? Sigh. sigh. It would please them, it would please others, maybe it would please me too?, it wouldn't please my sister(s) but f*** them. Just maybe it would have good results, just maybe it would be a success story, maybe a bit of love and care from me would do wonders. It would at least save them from losing all their estate from greedy health care workers... Just maybe, this is the right decision to take and the right thing to do.... But just maybe also, I would fail... I'm not a nurse by any exaggeration of the term. Giving shots of insulin? Well, terrifying as it might be I could do it. Restraining them if they want to leave, how aweful. Just maybe 24/7 looked in a house with them would kill me before them. So I here we are again with my yes, no, maybes. Wouldn't it be nice? Literally or sarcastic?
Easter Sunday in Metz, France 2010. Great
Rontay

The American stranger

He slowly got on the bus, made a big smile at the bus driver, clearly articulated a "Bonjour, Monsieur" and preceded to saunter slowly without any hurry at all to a seat towards the middle of the bus. This medium-height burly man had very short uniformly cut ash-blond hair, short-enough to be practical and masculine but not enough to make any kind of fashion statement whatsoever. He was a conformist lacking any given style. Very cleanly shaved, probably with an electric razor, no sideburns, round eyeglasses with thin wire frames, no rings, no watch, no necklace. He wore the same white collar pinstriped shirt all Engineers do (I guess that's the best profession to guess) the type with a pocket to the right with a blue and red bic pen popping out. They were meticulously tucked into his non brand name black dungarees. But oh, let's not forget those Alaskan wilderness boots, the knee high clod hoppers that weigh 100 pounds and can brave any snowdrift. Last but not least, he sported an olive-green puffy winter coat that he wore open but it was so baggy it could have wrapped it around himself almost twice. He had a burgundy land's end bag strapped around his shoulder, probably with a laptop inside....

Well, I've tried to describe this guy in as much detail as possible cause the minute I saw him I knew, just knew, and was 100% sure he was an American. For the last 3 hours I've been wondering why.... What was it? Are people so transparent? Do we just ooze bits of information about ourselves constantly? I don't want to believe that... but at the same time I smell Americans in Europe. Yes, I know, Americans come in all sizes and all colors and have every kind of look or style imaginable. That's what throws me! I guess maybe every "set trait" above, isolated and analysed apart could be French, Spanish, American, Russian etc. etc. but always maybe a tiny percentage point more common in Amercans.... But I don't know, I'm not a scientist. It'd be a great thesis for someone though. I'll give my take on it, my instinct... Frenchmen don't smile and say "Bonjour, Monsieur" to the bus driver, he's not a friend, and even if he were they'd have said "Bonsoir" by that time of day. Next, the French have some kind of look, consciently thought out, and even if they don't have one, that's thought out too so as to give an illusion of having no look. Never just whatever! So that kind of hair cut, less common... So cleanly shaved... also less common... Being so burly for no reason.... he obviously wasn't a fireman nor a bodybuilder.... less common. Many French guys are anorexic by American standards. What else? Those clothes, all mixed up, and I guess I haven't seen them in the shops over here, but in general, a bit too clean-cut. Also such a happy smiley attitude for a cold winter day... much rarer here. Carrying a computer too... He's a yankee, for sure. Parts of him remind me of a Southern Baptist preacher mixed with 1950's McCarthy-ism, a bit of serial killer, good ole boy and a dose of Bill Gates mixed with cheese farmer. Lets not the dash forget road raging SUV driver who has switched to driving a hybrid and collecting his own rainwater in a barrel. An archetype? God help us all. The type I've always avoid but now am strangely nostalgic for. Maybe there's some of him in me too. Oh là là!
Rontay

Oh là là!

There is a little expression in French that every frog uses hundreds of times daily. An expression that has no real translation to English. "On là là!" I guess in theory it could be positive or negative, but in my experience it's usually negative and I dread it. It can have the connotation of "Oh my gawd!" "Oh wow!" "This is unbelievable" to "Damn it!" "Get out of here!" "No way" or maybe even "you're just too weird and i don't like this situation here with you here and now!" Case in point, when you took a month to put together one of those 20 document, 100 signature files for a governmental organization and the burocrat ushering you into his-her office looks at the clock and says "oh là là" or else opens up the file taking out every document then shakes his head saying "oh là là", you're in for it! This means there's something terribly wrong and he considers you a problème. When you go into a bakery shop to buy a croissant, give a 10 euro bill and expect change. The boulangère steps back, takes a deep breath and lets it rip "Oh là là!" You can just feel the contempt. Ask anyone in the street for simple directions and you'll probably get it too. Reading it can be tricky though (You moron, you don't where the préfecture is! or maybe "Get out of my face" or "you are sooo.. weird" or "my time is precious" but I suppose it could also be "how the hell am I going to explain this!) Recently, I show up at a meeting to discuss the garbage problem in the neighborhood, and after being introduced to someone in my building, it happens, no nothing to do with the dumpsters which would have been more logical but because he found out I was American. "Oh là là là là". With all the meanings I just gave you, what do you think it could have meant, dear reader? Well, I'm just saying, avoiding the gd "Oh là là" in Frane is like the plague. I can even predict it nowdays. The person steps back, the eyes open wide, they take in air to say all those là's, the lips start to round, the head swings back, and in the worst situations the shoulders rise and a puff of air or a sigh preceeds it, and of course their hands grip something with all their might (hopefully you're far away) lest that exploding OHHH take them down. The only defense, beat them at their game!!!!!! When the train strike kept me (partly) from going into work, I called up the boss and the first words out of my mouth were "Oh là là" I can't come in today. No way to get there. "Oh là là!" With all that exploding pagentry she had no time to say the inevitable "Oh là là. You" Well, sometimes I just look at France, shake my head and say "Oh là là"
Rontay

Here goes!

Rontay's blog.
If anyone had ever told me I'd be writing a blog, I'd have said they were crazy. Why? One, I'm sooooo... lazy. Two, I know nothing about computers and for most of my life haven't cared. And three, I've got nothing much to say that anyone would care about. Whatever! I won't promise a miracle. If you happen to stumble upon this corner of cyberspace (and that's the only way you'll get here, cause I'm not telling anyone I know about this yet, you're in my secret garden!), you'll see that the photos and graphics, and links are pretty much inexistant here (for now at least). Yeah, really boring! That's cause I really have no clue how to do all those cool things others do in those beautiful pro-like blogs. Which brings me to the main question? Why bother anyway to do this? Well, first of all, it's a good practice and maybe interesting to finally learn how to take advantage of these complicated but fabulous technical things most people know how to do.... digital photos, slide presentations, linking... blah blah blah. Second, hum hum, I feel the need to express myself and talk about my bizarre life. No, I'm not someone who talks a lot. In a group of 5, I never open my mouth. In a group of three, I nod and agree (whether or not I do), and when I have coffee with a friend, I'm usually the listener! So I'm gonna use this as my personal diary. Thirdly, I've always wanted to write but never have, cause I'm too much into perfection: subject and predicate agreements, use of synonyms and antonyms, and make things too difficult for myself, cause I get drawn into some kind of literary quicksand. So I need freewriting, which could possible lead me to become a better writer, and person. Fourthly, they say when you write you organize your ideas and end up being a less chaotic person. And moi, I'm chaotic! As the French would say: Bordel partout (literally bordello everywhere) mind, body and spirit. What a mess. And fifthly, I do need a hobby! My friend Madame K. has had a fantastic blog for years and I envy her. She is my model.
The name of the title of this blog is obviously, floating in France. I guess I should explain that and at the same time introduce myself. I am an American living in France, too old to be considered young and way too young to be old (going on 40). I have spent about 10 years living in an adorable, but boring small town in North Eastern France, between Paris and Germany. I like to say I've been floating around. I never thought I'd end up here! I came for a year, have made many attempts to leave, but always end up staying. I get a job offer at the last minute, I decide to write a thesis, I meet someone new and interesting in the town, I have no where else to go, or no other prospects, and always... with time it's easier and easier to stay with fewer reasons to go. At one time I thought the country would throw me out by not renewing my visa, but I ended up getting permanent residency (like a green card). I still shudder to think I'll be here permanently cause I hope to be somewhere better soon, like bigger, warmer... I feel I'm always saying "Adios" to this place but I'm still here. This leads to the condition I call being "permanently temporary" , compounded by the fact I'm a foreigner here and everybody expects me to leave, and since I think I'll end up in Paris, New York, Rome or Kansas for that matter I have remained in my one-room studio, never daring or wanting to move. I send out job applications but I no longer think anyone will contact me outside my city here. I've been floating in France for a long time now, so just maybe this blog will either help me blow off somewhere else or land here happily knowing that's what's best for me and what I have really chosen. In the meantime, I am trying to enjoy the croissants beurre, the walks along the river, the view of the cathedral from my balcony, and the long nights sipping rosé with my friends in the quaint bars all over town. Voilà! I pledge to put down in words my experience here, my past, my états d'âme, my existence, my thoughts... for you but above all for me!

Rontay